


221BACREWOOD

by Ailorian



Category: 221BACREWOOD, Captain - Fandom, Christopher Robin - Fandom, Mycroft Holmes - Fandom, Pooh Bear, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, Winnie The Pooh, bbc - Fandom, doctor - Fandom, john watson - Fandom
Genre: AU, Winnie the Pooh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:43:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailorian/pseuds/Ailorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a young boy with a favorite teddy bear, and his older brother spends some evenings telling the two of them stories, primarily regarding the adventures of a young boy and his favorite teddy bear. Request from Otterymary via Tumblr <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ottermary](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ottermary).



> Insert appropriate disclaimers here. Obviously: Not my characters. No money earned. No intentional plagerism. Just a load of fun, I hope. Enjoy <3

IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO DR. JOHN H WATSON AND SOME BEES, AND THE STORIES BEGIN

HERE is Captain Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Sherlock Holmes. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn't. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Doctor John H Watson.

When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, "But I thought he was a soldier?"  
"So did I," said Sherlock.  
"Then why do you call him doctor?"  
"I don't."  
"But you said--"  
"He's an army doctor. Don't you know what that means?"  
"Ah, yes, now I do," I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get.  
Sometimes Doctor John H Watson likes a game of some sort when he comes downstairs, and sometimes he likes to sit quietly in front of the fire and listen to a story. This evening--  
"What about a story?" said Sherlock.  
"What about a story?" I said.  
"Could you very sweetly tell Doctor John H Watson one?"  
"I suppose I could," I said. "What sort of stories does he like?"  
"About himself. Because he's that sort of Bear."  
"Oh, I see."  
"So could you very sweetly?"  
"I'll try," I said.  
So I tried.


	2. A Game Develops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John joins Sherlock at BACREWOOD and is invited along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert appropriate disclaimers here. Obviously: Not my characters. No money earned. No intentional plagerism.

Once upon a time, a rather long ago time by now, perhaps late last week, Doctor John H. Watson lived in the forest all by himself in a dreary little military bedsit. 

(“What is a bedsit?” Asked Sherlock.  
“It means there was little room more than for a mattress and chair.” I explained simply.  
“John wasn’t quite sure.” said Sherlock dismissively, turning his nose up and lowering his eyelids to achieve a rather amusingly superior expression.  
“I am now.” Murmured a soft voice, just a tad defensive.  
“Then, shall I continue?” I asked, and then I did.)

One day when he was out walking in the forest, quite heavily dependent on his walking stick at that time, Doctor John H. Watson crossed a park, still green despite the chilly autumn air, and was stopped in his progress by a rather strange sound.  
“John!” Said a voice from behind him, and Dr. John H. Watson ignored it, thinking he can’t possibly be the only John. “John Watson!” It cried again, giving the army doctor pause. Turning, Doctor -

(“You may simply call him John.” Sherlock informed me in a matter of fact tone.  
“Would it not be improper?” Asked I, quirking an innocent brow while Sherlock gave me a tight mouthed look.  
“You will make us all tired using so many names.” He answered calmly, tilting his head in mock derision, and I conceded politely, if only to continue the story; after all, it was growing late already.)

Turning, John gave a confused look, having at first seen no one of memory behind him. It wasn’t until he crossed his eyes a bit, having been called once more by his name, that John found a bee hovering very near his nose.  
“Mike Stamford.” The bee politely identified himself, rising and falling a bit as he danced excitedly in place. John smiled, nodding quickly in recollection. “I know, I got fat.” Said the bee, chuckling at his own joke for a moment. 

(“Skip to the part where someone is brutally murdered.” Sherlock demanded softly, crossing his arms over his chest and dragging Dr. John H. Watson to his other side in the same motion.  
“Who is to say that such a thing should happen?” I asked, very nearly not surprised at all by his request.  
“The interesting part then.” The child insisted, rolling his eyes to the ceiling; a habit I fear I’ve taught him.  
“Alright, the interesting part.” I mumbled.)

So it was that John and his old bee friend Mike were discussing certain things, trying not to complain too much in properly polite company, but John allowed some admittance of his current status and was offered an alternative by the smug bee.  
“I know you.” Said Mike. “You can’t stand to be away from the wood. Why not get a flatshare or something?”  
“Come now,” Argued the self deprecating army doctor. “Who would want me for a flatmate?” And when his old bee friend chuckled brightly, he asked. “What’s funny?”  
“You’re the second person to say that to me today.” The bee hummed in a self satisfactory manner.  
“Who was the first?”  
Thus the bee led our army doctor toward Bart’s Bee Farm, where distractedly awaited them a young man bedecked in a netted suit, with black curls and pale eyes and a rather obsessive penchant for the buzzing honey makers. 

(“Was that me?” Asked Sherlock in an awed voice, hardly daring to believe it.  
“That was you.” I whispered conspiratorially, grinning to myself.  
Sherlock did not reply this time, but his eyes grew larger, and his cheeks became pink.)

Remembering fondly his days spent in the honey fields half a lifetime ago, John gazed fondly upon the freshly painted, extra luxurious hives which now lined Bart’s, commenting on how much they had changed.  
“Mike, hand me your spoon, I’ve dropped mine.” You demanded, your voice echoing oddly through the thick protective hat. It appeared that you had not noticed the other visitor, a quiet bear standing still near the door with a great grip on his walking stick.  
“Haven’t brought one.” Mike answered snidely, bouncing about as bees do, as if to demonstrate his lack of need, let alone ability.  
“Here, use mine.” John offered softly, because of course a bear should carry a spoon for honey.

(“John prefers jam.” Sherlock informed me succinctly.  
“I shall take that into account.” I answered politely.)

“Oh, thank you.” You said, rising politely to cross the room and retrieve the offered spoon from the crippled bear.  
“John Watson,” Mike introduced him, nodding and bobbing about. “An old friend of mine.”  
“Woozle or Heffalump?” You asked.

(“Obvious.” Said Sherlock, puckering his mouth at me in the way that young children do.  
“Transparent.” I agreed, pressing a finger to my lips. “Do try not to interrupt, or we shall never get through to the interesting part.”)

“Heffalump.” John answered, giving a quizzical look. “I’m sorry, how did you--?” However, at that moment the small, shy, pink Molly appeared, carefully balancing several glass jars in smaller hands than perhaps was necessary. Quite set in your current task, you turned away quite sharply to take samples.

(“Perhaps we should have started at the interesting part.”  
The innocent tone did nothing to dull the snide remark, and I paused again in my narration to give Sherlock the same tired look he had been giving me. Sighing quietly, he dropped his hands to his side before gathering John back into his lap.  
“Just skip ahead, Mycroft.” He muttered, his voice betraying how sleepy he had become in the warmth and dim light of the fire. “Something interesting.” And, of course, I conceded, in this at least.)

So it was, that you, the clever little beekeeper, convinced Dr. John H. Watson to join you in your new home in the 221 Bacre Wood, a small, sort of pleasant treehouse with two bedrooms and a great deal of clutter. You talked some time about his psychosomatic limp, and he of your astute observations, and then it happened that a grumpy old donkey came marching purposefully through your door.  
Of course, by this time you were quite aware of an issue in the forest; a rather prolific hive had lost its queen, and contrary to beehavior, the nest had begun a panicked search and rescue mission, rendering the clover fields nigh impossible to traverse.  
“Will you come?” Asked the tired donkey, looking to you expectantly.  
“Who will be there?” You countered.  
“Anderson.”  
“That old rabbit won’t work with me.” You told him.  
“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”  
“But I need an assistant.”  
“Will you come?” The donkey asked again, his long face all but pleading.  
“I’ll be right behind you.” You answered, and the donkey turned to leave.  
At first, you intended to leave the old soldier bear behind, allow some time to make himself comfortable under the matronly wing of the wise old landlady, or perhaps I should say treelady, but upon further reconsideration you returned to sitting area, observing him for a moment.  
“You were a soldier bear.” You mentioned finally, drawing the doctor’s attention. “Any good?”  
“Very good.” Said John, purposefully setting himself upright.  
“Seen a lot of ouches, then; scary hives.”  
“Mm, yes.”  
“Bit of trouble too, I’ll bet.”  
“Yes, enough, far too much.”  
“Want to see some more?”  
“Oh, bother, yes.” 

(It was at this moment that I turned to find Sherlock sleeping rather soundly, the dirty old bear clutched against his chest and head lolling against the velvet cushion of the armchair against which he had been leaning. His pyjamas, still over large despite several inches growth, had ridden up his leg as he shifted restlessly, dreaming some fantastic dream.  
Stifling our noise as best I could, I lifted Sherlock into my arms, cuddling his head into my shoulder as I took the stairs. Perhaps tomorrow I should insist the story be told in his bed.)


	3. Narrative Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some inner Mycroftian thoughts (of the elder child) before we further the Story of a Boy and his Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert appropriate disclaimers here. Obviously: Not my characters. No money earned. No intentional plagerism. Just a load of fun, I hope. Enjoy <3

It is a wonder what so simple a thing can amuse a child. In the lawns surrounding the house, I find myself often in possession of a moment when I might glance up, out a window, down a hall, and see that head of bouncing curls off on some adventure or another. There are those moments when I am gripped with idle nerves, watching as if trapped in a cloud as a knee is scraped, an elbow thumped, or a sliver suffered to settle itself.

Still though, these are some of the most fulfilling moments, as I watch my many years younger brother seek me out, wandering the halls of the house, sometimes tear sodden, sometimes frustrated, and it is in his seeking of me that I know my worth.

Better are the moments when he needs me not at all, for it is at his peak of health and comfort that he has the most spectacular adventures, the greatest realizations, and the most profound thoughts. How much more fulfilling it is to have him call my name, simply to inform me of those observations he has made; some as simple as a color, and others more than my reasonable mind can comprehend.

Thus is any conversation with a child, I suspect; equal parts confounding and astonishing.

 

Several days had past from my slightly informal and fleeting introduction to Dr. John H Watson, and a great thunderous storm had befallen the house, rendering the outdoors useless to the wandering and curious child. Forced to idleness as he was, it was no surprise to have the door of my study shoved open, and allowed to bounce against the rubber stopper at the baseboard. As he entered, dragging the long suffering bear behind him on the carpet, I raised my eyebrows and watched in silence while he took a seat on the chaise lounge by the window, and stared sullenly at the dark grey behind rain splattered glass.

“What happened next?” Asked Sherlock, almost unexpectedly, as he dragged the bear across his chest to cross his arms once more. Being nearly three in the afternoon, he was dressed in proper khaki shorts and a deep green vest over a short sleeved button up, which he kept properly closed to the throat. His shoes were still muddy from an intial attempt at outdoor activities, confirmed by the uncombed yet dripping hair he had slicked back from his face, likely in a double handed moment of frustration.

“Happened next?” I echoed quietly, setting down my pen as I finished some document or another.

“To John and I.”

“To John and me.” It was always my instinct to correct him, and Sherlock turned quickly to cast a tight lipped pout at me from across the room.

“You said it’s improper to say John and Me.” He argued.

“Unless preceded by a preposition.” Said I, attempting to clarify. “Just as you would say ‘to me’ you would say ‘to John and me’.” I watched silently as his face stilled, considering the provided data and aligning it with his current understanding of the world around him. Then, sighing impatiently, he turned again toward the window.

“Tell me more, please.” Asked he, adding the last a bit hesitantly as he remembered his manners, and that I have always been quicker to respond to them. It is the only way to teach him.

“I believe you fell asleep just as the tired old donkey had come to fetch you, and, inviting John along, had set out of the treehouse to begin.” Otherwise still, Sherlock nodded gently, and tightened his grip on the bear.


End file.
